Dead of Night

30

Serpiente

Marion D. Ford-if the man really is an operator, what’s the best way to take him down…?

Dasha had been thinking about it Friday morning when she’d found the address of Sanibel Biological Supply on the Internet, and used MapQuest to print directions. She was still excited; couldn’t wait to meet the man face-to-face.

She’d also printed Ford’s photograph. Those eyes… thinking of the way he’d used a boat as a weapon added to the anticipation.

She had Broz drop them at Orlando International, where she used a counterfeit credit card to get another rental, a green Pontiac midsize, nondescript.

Aleski was with her, of course. Aleski, whose right eye was now swollen closed, ear blood-clotted beneath antibiotic salve.

Irritating. She’d have much preferred to make the trip alone, she and Ford, two operators meeting-that’s the way she pictured it-but there was no escaping Aleski. Like a dog, the way he followed her around. Lately, though, it was more like a guard dog.

Four hours later, they were driving over a causeway bridge onto Sanibel Island, mica-bright water beneath, the molten fire of a western sky familiar in a misplaced way.

An image formed in Dasha’s mind: the Foundry furnaces of Volstak blazing, doors wide, ghost men swinging shovels…

One of them probably my idiot father.

Her mother had worked the factories at lunchtime. To Dasha, the heat from the furnaces felt like heaven. Her mother said they were doors that opened to hell.

“This is a pretty island. I like the way coconut trees look at sunset.”

Aleski’s first combination of sentences since they’d left Orlando. He sat there, his face looking as if he’d been beaten with a hammer, now suddenly the insightful romantic.

The images of furnaces and ghost men lingered. “Shut your stupid mouth. Concentrate on the job. I told you-this man, Ford, isn’t some typical American amateur. You can’t even defend yourself from a woman. And you’re wasting your time thinking about fruit trees?”

“Sorry, Dasha.” Aleski sniffed, obviously irritated, but still not done with it. Finally, he asked, “Coconuts are fruit?”

“Oh God…”

“I didn’t know that. But, if they are a fruit, why are they called ‘nuts’?”

“Enough!”

“I’m tired of you speaking to me as if I’m stupid! Fruit is soft on the outside. Nuts are hard.”

Dasha couldn’t wait to park the car, get away from Aleski. Find a private room, take a long, sudsy shower. The stink of Mr. Earl seemed to cling-it had to be her imagination. But work came first.

The woman drove straight to Dinkin’s Bay because that was the professional thing to do. Check out the place; fix landmarks in her mind.

The first of several disappointments that night.

Following the map, Dasha turned right onto Tarpon Bay Road. Narrow shell lane, mangroves. Rounded a slow curve… then braked to a stop when they were confronted unexpectedly by a man in the process of locking the marina gate.

“Sorry, folks! Friday nights, we always close at sunset. Unless you got an invitation.”

A wide-bodied older man, white plantation hat, smoking a cigar.

Dasha had been so worried he’d get a close look at their faces, she had nearly skidded into the swamp in her rush to get away.

“It must be a very exclusive marina if customers are required to have invitations,” Aleski said as tires spun, shells flying. “Have you ever been on such a wealthy island?”

Fool. “Shut up!”

Dasha didn’t get her shower, or a hotel. On west Gulf Drive, they’d stopped at Tradewinds, then Island Inn. Both desk clerks said the same: It was December 17, a week before Christmas, and every room on the island was booked.

Fuming, the woman parked the rental a few blocks from Dinkin’s Bay at a little shopping center-Bailey’s General Store, Island Cinema. Then she and Aleski walked to the marina gate, as if they were a couple out for an evening stroll.

All she wanted to do was eyeball Marion Ford’s home and lab; have a plan. Maybe get a look at the man himself. Decide if it was plausible to break in later, stick him with 10 ccs of Versed, and snatch him.

The Mossad profile was alluring in itself, but the photo had really hooked her.

A carnivore surprised in tall grass.

Yes. Exactly the same. But had the photo lied? Photos often did.

There was a secret place within her where she hoped the photo was accurate.

Now, though, there was loud music playing beyond the marina gate, people dancing on docks silhouetted by holiday lights. Big party going on.

Dasha and Aleski returned an hour later. Then three hours later. Then at midnight.

Music was still booming.

Impossible.

Finally, nearly 3:00 A.M., Sanibel traffic had thinned enough for them to attempt to wrestle their way through the mangrove swamp that bypassed the fence and gate. Mosquitoes screamed in their ears; muck sucked at their shoes. The bay stank of rotting eggs. Awful.

“Duck! Stay down.”

Off to the right, there was an abrupt detonation of light. It transformed the mangrove leaves overhead from black to beige, erased stars. Blinding.

Dasha tensed as the light became a focused yellow conduit that panned along the mangrove fringe. It nearly found them once, swept away, but then returned quickly and found them again.

“Don’t move.”

The light came from a house previously unseen, a structure built on stilts over water. The bright conduit swept back and forth, the timing unpredictable. It went off for seconds, sometimes minutes, before the blazing column began to probe again.

A lone figure up there on the porch, wide-shouldered, who knew how a search was done.

The unpredictable rhythm kept the Russians pinned for more than half an hour while mosquitoes drank their blood in the sulfur stink, and dropping December chill.

Back in the car, Aleski said, “I feel like I’m going to be sick. My eye’s infected, my ear’s infected. I don’t mind that rotten egg odor so much. But something in this car smells worse. What’s that terrible perfume old women wear? Lavender.”

“Shut up! You fool. Shut your filthy mouth!”

Late the next morning, though, their luck changed. One of Dr. Stokes’s stooges tipped off Mr. Earl.

It was Hartman, the stooge, vice president in charge of environmental oversight.

Dr. Marion Ford was on his way to Kissimmee. He had called for an appointment; was returning to ask questions about Frieda Matthews’s death. It sounded like he planned to retrace the woman’s steps, Hartman said, and he claimed he had Applebee’s computer files.

“An interesting opportunity to introduce yourself to the man you were supposed to interview last night,” Mr. Earl told her, his contempt undisguised. “If you can manage to get back in time.”

At a little after 5:00 P.M., Saturday afternoon, when they were near Kissimmee, and only a few miles from the Bartram county line, Mr. Earl called again, his voice oddly formal. “Dr. Ford is on his way to the county hospital. I don’t know for certain, but a friend of his may be the victim of an unusual parasitic fish.”

“You’re not serious. A candiru?” Dasha’s vicious mood was instantly lightened. “Those fish were my idea. Wonderful! Did it actually climb into this man’s-”

“Yes,” Mr. Earl interrupted, “we’re trying to shed light on the matter now.”

He was in a room, people listening. Obvious.

Dasha thought he was joking about the fish, working some kind of angle, until he added, “One of our employees insists it’s true, and he doesn’t find it humorous. He came to me and demanded that I notify law enforcement. I’m sitting here with him right now. Dr. Jason Reynolds, Department of Environmental Oversight. And a detective from the sheriff’s department who just finished taking his statement.”

Dasha could guess the cop’s name: Jimmy Heller.

She was already driving faster, phone to her ear.

“Dr. Reynolds told Detective Heller some very disturbing things. About company employees taking part in a conspiracy to pollute the Everglades with exotic animals. Worms. Parasites? Snakes, too-but he’s only guessing about snakes.

“We may have a terrible scandal on our hands if we don’t take immediate steps. But Detective Heller and his department can only do so much.” Long pause. “That’s why we need our head of company security. The detective has agreed to turn the investigation over to our internal affairs department once you get here. Hopefully, that’ll be very soon.”

The woman understood. “You’re at the ranch? Twenty minutes.”

Mr. Earl said, “I’m so very glad you’re taking this seriously. If what Dr. Reynolds says is true, he’s going to need all our help and protection. Unfortunately, Dr. Reynolds has also confessed to taking part in the conspiracy, so we’ll need to assign him one of our corporate attorneys.”

Another message there: They had leverage on Reynolds if needed.

Located on the Tropicane acreage, several miles from the mansion, was a place known as the “Chicken Farm.” A dozen employees lived there-“multiple executive housing” was the classification, because the company couldn’t acknowledge that it was actually a commune. There was an organic garden, goats for milk, hens for eggs, a spring-fed pond where residents could swim naked, smoke dope, baptize themselves during sacred satanic rituals-Dasha didn’t know or care.

More than a year ago, she’d done a “security/safety assessment” at Mr. Earl’s insistence. It had to do with singling out problems that might cause Tropicane legal headaches down the road. She spent an afternoon at the Chicken Farm, the only time she visited the place.

She came back and said to Mr. Earl, “You got a bunch of overeducated American brats playing dress-up games, every one of them a lawsuit waiting to happen. My advice? Pour gasoline around the doors, wait until they’re stoned, then strike a match. Mass suicide-cult groups do that sometimes.”

That won Mr. Earl’s broadest grin. “I hear what you’re telling me. Fire them. Woman, you don’t need to tell me about spoiled white kids.”

They both had a good laugh. The man could be funny on occasion.

Her advice didn’t seem so extreme now, sitting alone in a locked room with Jason Reynolds, one of the overeducated American brats. Doctor Reynolds, he reminded her, when he got tired of playing his flaky, nice-guy role. Scraggly-haired with a goatee, wearing a silly tie-dyed T-shirt, sitting there with his scrawny arms telling her he was concerned for the environment, doing his humanitarian duty, that’s all. And didn’t appreciate being interrogated by a company security hack.

It was in his attitude. Dasha, with her accent, her spotty grammar, irritated him.

“I’ve already talked to the official fuzz. Why do I have to answer the same questions from you?”

He’d said that several times, several ways.

“Fuzz,” he explained to her, rolling his eyes, was another word for “cop.”

Dasha knew that. She’d asked just to piss the kid off. Giving him rope.

She’d given him plenty.

On the table between them was a little silver tape recorder. The same one she’d used when she’d try to get information out of Jobe Applebee.

“Remember how that one went,” Mr. Earl reminded her before she took Reynolds into the room. “Come up with a secondary plan in case he won’t cooperate.”

She already had: In exchange for not prosecuting, she’d tell the kid he had an hour to collect his things, kiss his commune family good-bye, and they’d escort him off the property.

Actually, she’d stick him with the knockout drug, have Aleski load his body and belongings into a plane. Then dump everything halfway between the Florida Keys and Cuba from nine thousand feet.

“Very workable,” Mr. Earl told her, adding that he’d decided to fly back in the DC-3 earlier than planned. He’d be waiting in the Bahamas, interested to see what she decided.

Washing his hands of the matter, in other words.

“No,” Dasha told him. “We leave together. We’re partners now. Am I correct? Besides, the DC-3’s bigger. We may be taking two extra people back to the island. Ford and that idiot kid.”

She put it out there experimentally, not expecting him to go along with it. But Mr. Earl did. Seemed almost meek.

Signing those orders, then fucking the old man-a very smart thing to do.

Now Mr. Earl was somewhere upstairs, stirring up a fresh pitcher of martinis, probably, while Dasha sat across the table from Jason Reynolds. She had the recorder, and also a notebook, but only pretended to write in it.

On the floor beside her was a canvas purse that contained four vials of Versed, a box of disposable hypodermics, duct tape, and a rolled-up copy of the Tampa Tribune.

She used her toe to nudge the bag closer as she listened to Jason Reynolds say, “How many times do I have to tell you this? Look, sister, yes, I released guinea larvae into water systems that connect to Disney. Several thousand catfish hatchlings, too. Candiru. But I never really believed the fish would attack a human being. It’s just too far-out, man-scientifically speaking.

“Even so, I stand by my decision. It was the right thing to do. It’s not ecoterrorism. We call it ‘ecotage’-‘ecosalvage’ -another term to describe a proactive way to help save a planet that’s being gutted and poisoned.”

In her flat cop’s voice, Dasha said, “You were aware that you were breaking the law?”

The kid sighed. “Like a broken record, you keep asking the same shit.”

“You were aware that it’s a felony? A federal crime.”

Bigger sigh. “Yes! Sister, do you have any idea how much destruction that damn theme park has caused this state? Any idea how many more housing units they’ll build in the Everglades if the sugar companies sell their land to developers?”

Dasha was briefly interested. “How much money you think that land’s worth? Millions?”

“Millions?” Reynolds snorted. “Construction conglomerates have already run the figures. Billions. That’s why we… why people like me are taking action. Doing things like releasing parasites into the water system. Earth’s natural guardians-what do you think mosquitoes are? Scare the hell out of potential buyers, make the land worthless as a commodity. But for a reason-create a haven for wildlife.”

Billions. Dasha felt her abdomen flutter. The kid seemed to know what he was talking about. She really was going to be rich.

“The activist group you mentioned, the Albedo Society, has a few hundred thousand members. How many of them have been doing this sort of crap-”

“Whoa, sister, I won’t talk about anyone’s involvement but my own. Nationwide, though? Good people, righteous organizations, are finally standing up, taking an activist approach.” The kid had his martyr’s speech down. He sounded like Mr. Sweet-only this kid actually believed.

“Putting worms in the water that eat through people’s skin-you see that as a good thing.”

“The parasites are a total gross-out, I agree. But they don’t take lives. They don’t cause any more misery than overdevelopment has caused our environment. That’s why I went to Mr. Hartman-I’ve never said he’s not just as guilty as I am, remember. Dig what I’m telling you? I’m the one who insisted on talking to police.”

Dasha said, “More of your sabotage-to give Tropicane a bad name.”

“No. Just like I told the detective: I don’t participate in activities that kill people. Someone murdered Dr. Matthews. Probably Dr. Applebee, too. Someone who works for Tropicane, I think. Secretly, I’d been wondering about it. There are a couple of dudes here on the Chicken Farm who’re wrapped too tight. Wiccans, a Pagan-I have my own ideas, but that’s all I’m going to say.

“Today, though, I saw proof that the woman was murdered. And I saw a very good man-a spiritual man-in terrible pain that I’m partially responsible for.” The kid threw his hands up. “No more. I’m done with it. Inflicting pain is very negative karma.”

He’d said that before, too.

The Russian looked at the desk clock: 6:20 P.M. Time to invite some negative karma of her own.

“A couple times, I’ve asked you to telephone the man you mentioned. Ford? Asked you to tell me details about him. Each time, you refuse to do me this small favor.”

“Dr. Ford is a fairly well-known biologist-although I personally find his papers middle-of-the-road. He refuses to take an advocacy position in his work. You want me to lie to him-that’s why I won’t call. I don’t kill, and I won’t lie!” Reynolds’s superior tone was infuriating.

“Not a lie. Tell the man to drive to the canal where you found the phone. Detective Heller says the police are still searching.”

“No, they’re not, and you know it. I got the phone; gave it to Heller myself. I panicked, thinking I might be implicated in Dr. Matthews’s murder. That’s why I went back and fished the thing out. The cops have no reason to keep searching.”

“Maybe they’re trying to find something else.”

“Bullshit.”

Dasha had the rolled-up newspaper in her hand. She didn’t think she’d have any trouble beating this little idiot into submission, but Aleski was outside the door just in case. Unless he’d snuck off to drink vodka with Mr. Earl. He’d been doing that more and more lately.

She stood; walked around the desk toward Reynolds. “Take your clothes off.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Strip down. Pants first, then your shirt.” She had no interest in Reynolds, but making a prisoner strip was the first procedural step in a hostile interrogation. The beginning of the dehumanization process.

“Screw you, lady! I’m walking out of here. I’m calling an attorney.” Reynolds was standing, chin out-You can’t intimidate me-didn’t flinch when she drew her arm back because he didn’t believe she’d hit him.

She did. Hit him with the newspaper across the face so hard that he dropped to the floor, butt-first.

“You asshole! That hurt!”

On his cheek, a feverish red welt was beginning to swell. His lips were trembling. Jason Reynolds had never been hit in the face before. It was obvious.

“I want you to make a telephone call. I want you to tell Dr. Ford to get in his car and drive to the canal.”

Reynolds was still touching his face. “Don’t hit me again, Okay. Please? I’m not into the violence scene.”

“I am into the violence scene.”

“Please… please don’t.”

Dasha thought, This won’t take long.

It didn’t.

A little more than an hour later, Dasha got her first look at Ford. He’d surprised her, jogging out of the shadows from the front of the Bartram County Hospital, not from the ER entrance, which was closer to the weird-looking Volkswagen camper that Reynolds had pointed out and said belonged to Ford’s friend.

Reynolds-the kid had started bawling, he was so happy, when Dasha told him she didn’t need his help anymore. Time for him to go back to the ranch, gather his belongings, tell his doper pals good-bye. Leave Tropicane property and never come back.

He’d just finished making the phone call to Ford. Was in the back of a company van, Broz at the wheel.

“Go with this man, do what he tells you to do, and we won’t prosecute.”

“I will. I promise I will! I don’t want to cause the company any more problems.”

Dasha had nodded her head at Broz. He’d nodded in return. Broz wasn’t bright, but at least he knew what the woman was telling him to do.

“You’ll never see me, or hear from me, again-I swear.”

Dasha said, “That’s something I would bet on,” and slid the van’s door closed.

A short time later, Aleski was crouched in the back of the Volkswagen, Dasha was in the Pontiac rental only two spaces down from the VW. Jimmy Heller was in his unmarked squad car, assigned to pull in tight behind the van.

Bait, trap, and blocker ready.

“I pull behind the camper, you got sixty seconds, no more, then I’m outta here. It’d better be clean-no noise, no blood-or I’m gone before that.”

A New York hustler with a badge. Dasha was ducked down in the Pontiac, thinking how much fun it would be to work on Heller with a rolled-up newspaper. That’s when Ford suddenly appeared in the rearview mirror. Surprising as hell.

The woman became a statue, waiting. She felt his shadow cross the window.

Had he seen her?

No… the man continued running at an easy pace through the parking lot, then out onto the street again.

He’s scouting the perimeter. Suspicious.

Finally seeing the man in person, arms swinging, calves flexing, Dasha felt an abdominal rush. He was bigger than expected. A nerd with muscles. An operator born with the perfect disguise.

A few minutes later, when Ford appeared again, Dasha was ready. She had her head down, watching him in the mirror, one hand on the door handle, the other on the button that opened the trunk. Watched him slow to a walk, approaching the camper cautiously, head swiveling. Watched the man touch his fingers to the van, testing for movement.

A pro. Competent.

Watched him freeze as he opened the driver’s door, instantly aware something was wrong… then Dasha had her feet on the pavement, running, the sound of the unmarked car’s engine roaring, its headlights panning across the VW, everything happening at once as the trap slammed closed.

In the microsecond before Aleski grabbed the biologist from behind, Dasha saw Ford’s face clearly, his expression fierce. There it was, the intensity she’d hoped would be there.

A carnivore surprised in tall grass. Like that.

The photo hadn’t lied.

With Ford unconscious in the trunk, the pleasure she felt changed incrementally to anxiety as she drove from the parking lot, Aleski beside her, the hairy man breathing heavily, damaged ear bleeding again.

“Big sonuvabitch. First time I saw him run by, I knew. Strong as a horse. Didn’t think he’d ever go out.”

Dasha tensed. “But you only gave him ten ccs of Versed, correct? Like I told you: no more than that.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. Maybe just a drop or two extra. First time he ran by, I knew he’d be a tough one.”

Shit. Aleski was lying. “You idiot! How much was in the needle?”

The woman accelerated through the shadowed neighborhood, turned right into an alley behind what looked to be a warehouse, green garbage dumpsters in the shadows. She had already switched off the lights and punched the trunk open before she braked to a stop, threw her door open.

Marion D. Ford lay on his back, knees and shoulders wedged grotesquely, blood coagulating on his windpipe, skin waxen as his body cooled, both eyes wide beneath crooked glasses, two blue voids reflecting light.

The man wasn’t breathing.

“Idiot, you gave him too much. He’s in respiratory arrest!”

Aleski snapped, “Kill him now, kill him later, what’s the fucking difference?” The insubordination was out of character, but Dasha didn’t stop to deal with it.

The woman’s medical training took over. She touched Ford’s neck, then wrist, checking for a pulse: None. Tilted the big man’s head back as she used her fingers to open his mouth, feeling chin stubble, the chill of his skin, as she checked for a clear airway.

Heard the soft percussion of a last warm breath leaving the man’s body.

A death rattle. Dasha had heard the sound enough to know.

He’s gone.

She yelled, “If you’ve hurt him, I’ll kill you. Idiot!,” as she gave Marion Ford five pounding chest compressions.

Dasha then leaned into the trunk, touched her lips to Ford’s, and blew air into his lungs, thinking that they had to get him to the plane.

There was oxygen, a full medical kit, on the DC-3…